What Has Wings and an Apron? Me.

One of the more difficult things to cope with after weight loss surgery are the reminders of your fat body.

That means waking up every day to a large mound of flesh hanging over your waist and pubic region because some of the excess fat may be gone, but the flesh doesn't go away. The connective tissue is too damaged to "bounce back".

I can't count the number of times people suggested going to the gym or just waiting and the skin would just magically recede. It doesn't. It's damaged. Period. It's one of the casualties of the lifestyle that led me to be nearly 500 pounds, and it doesn't just go away (it won't go away on it's own at all).

I hide it with my clothing. Longer shirts. Pants that cover my waist as well as my hanging apron of flesh. Then I try not to see it, pretend I don't feel it when I sit down or shift the wrong way.

Just when that's out of sight, though, my sleeves creep up and the massive pendulous wings of fat under my upper arms starts swinging madly like a six year old learning to hit a baseball. Sometimes if I'm reaching for something it hits me in the head. I wince just thinking about these things.

I'm the oldest basset hound on the planet.

My wife tells me that my insurance company will cover a panniculectomy and maybe even surgery to remove the underarm skin. I think they may only cover it if there's complications...skin breakdown, rash, infection,...whatever it takes to interfere with life so that the procedure isn't just for cosmetic reasons.

Which, of course, gives them all the leeway in the world to turn it down.

And that's assuming that I have the same insurance down the road and that their terms don't change. And, finally, I have the couple grand available to pay the surgeon's copay. Right now I don't even know if I'm going to cover all my bills.

It's really depressing, but it's not like there's much choice. I either get out and once again slog through the day dragging this extra fat and skin around or...well, there's an alternative that involves just not getting out of bed, I suppose. Just being conscious allows me a reminder of this alien landscape that shifts and rolls without my mental commands, as if it has a mind of its own.

I remind myself that it's a reminder of what not to do again. But it doesn't help me feeling like a freak in public, trying to quickly jerk my sleeves back down over the flesh fudge of my upper arms. I look forward to Winter's long sleeves and jackets and sweaters.

I am keeping my eye open for something to use as a pressure garment over my arms. I tried bandages, those wraps from ACE? They work for about fifteen minutes. Then my skin starts to bulge through where the bandage edges fold mid-wrap, creating some weird scene like the Blob breaking through a barn or shed where the heroine is seeking refuge, the gelatinous goo pulsing and bubbling through the thin crevices between the wooden slats. No matter how much I adjust the bandages they just don't hold.

I hate it. If I'm not covered enough I won't even look into a mirror. I'm afraid of what it would look like underwater...I'd probably be mistaken for some kind of jellyfish with wings.